Sylvia or, The May Queen. A Lyrical Drama. By George Darley |
 |
|
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
Scene VIII.
|
| IX. |
 | Sylvia |  |
Scene VIII.
O thou dread Bard! whose soul of fire
Moved o'er the dark-string'd Epic lyre,
Till brightening where thy spirit swept
Lustre upon its dimness crept,
And at thy word, from dull repose
The Light of heavenly Song arose!
O that this lyric shell of mine
Were like thy harp, Minstrel divine!
With thunder-chords intensely strung,
To chime with thy audacious song
That scorned all deeds to chronicle
Less than the wars of Heaven and Hell:
O that this most despised hand
Could sweep so beautifully grand
The nerves Tyrtæan!—I would then
Storm at the souls of little men,
And raise them to a nobler mood
Than that Athenian Master could !—
But no!—the spirit long has fled
That warmed the old tremendous dead,
Who seem in stature of their mind
The Anaks of the human kind:
So bright their crowns of glory burn,
Our eyes are seared; we feebly turn
In terrible delight away,
And only—“Ye were mighty!” say.
We turn to forms of milder clay
Who smile indeed, but cannot frown,
Nor bring Hell up nor Heaven down.
One gloomy Thing indeed, who now
Lays in the dust his lordly brow,
Had might, a deep indignant sense,
Proud thoughts, and moving eloquence;
But oh! that high poetic strain
Which makes the heart shriek out again
With pleasure half mistook for pain;
That clayless spirit which doth soar
To some far empyrean shore,
Beyond the chartered flight of mind,
Reckless, repressless, unconfined,
Spurning from off the roofed sky
Into unciel'd Infinity;
Beyond the blue crystalline sphere,
Beyond the ken of optic seer,
The flaming walls of this great world,
Where Chaos keeps his flag unfurled
And embryon shapes around it swarm,
Waiting till some all-mighty arm
Their different essences enrol
Into one sympathetic whole;
That spirit which presumes to seize
On new creation-seeds like these,
And bears on its exultant wings
Back to the earth undreamt-of things,
Which unseen we could not conceive,
And seen we scarcely can believe;—
That strain, this spirit, was not thine,
Last-favour'd child of the fond Nine!
Great as thou wert, thou lov'dst the clod,
Nor like blind Milton walk'd with God!
Him who dared lay his hand upon
The very footstool of Jove's throne,
And lift his intellectual eye
Full on the blaze of Deity:
Who sang with the celestial choir
Hosanna! to the Eternal Sire;
And trod the holy garden, where
No man but he and Adam were;
Who reach'd that high Parnassian clime
Where Homer sat as gray as Time,
Murmuring his rhapsodies sublime!
Who from the Mantuan's bleeding crown
Tore the presumptuous laurel down,
And fix'd it, proudly, on his own!
Who with that Bard diviner still
Than Earth has seen or ever will,
The pride, the glory of the hill,
Albion! thy other deathless son,—
Reigns; and with them the Grecian one,
Leagued in supreme tri-union!
Moved o'er the dark-string'd Epic lyre,
Till brightening where thy spirit swept
Lustre upon its dimness crept,
And at thy word, from dull repose
The Light of heavenly Song arose!
O that this lyric shell of mine
Were like thy harp, Minstrel divine!
197
To chime with thy audacious song
That scorned all deeds to chronicle
Less than the wars of Heaven and Hell:
O that this most despised hand
Could sweep so beautifully grand
The nerves Tyrtæan!—I would then
Storm at the souls of little men,
And raise them to a nobler mood
Than that Athenian Master could !—
But no!—the spirit long has fled
That warmed the old tremendous dead,
Who seem in stature of their mind
The Anaks of the human kind:
So bright their crowns of glory burn,
Our eyes are seared; we feebly turn
In terrible delight away,
And only—“Ye were mighty!” say.
We turn to forms of milder clay
Who smile indeed, but cannot frown,
Nor bring Hell up nor Heaven down.
One gloomy Thing indeed, who now
Lays in the dust his lordly brow,
Had might, a deep indignant sense,
Proud thoughts, and moving eloquence;
198
Which makes the heart shriek out again
With pleasure half mistook for pain;
That clayless spirit which doth soar
To some far empyrean shore,
Beyond the chartered flight of mind,
Reckless, repressless, unconfined,
Spurning from off the roofed sky
Into unciel'd Infinity;
Beyond the blue crystalline sphere,
Beyond the ken of optic seer,
The flaming walls of this great world,
Where Chaos keeps his flag unfurled
And embryon shapes around it swarm,
Waiting till some all-mighty arm
Their different essences enrol
Into one sympathetic whole;
That spirit which presumes to seize
On new creation-seeds like these,
And bears on its exultant wings
Back to the earth undreamt-of things,
Which unseen we could not conceive,
And seen we scarcely can believe;—
That strain, this spirit, was not thine,
Last-favour'd child of the fond Nine!
Great as thou wert, thou lov'dst the clod,
Nor like blind Milton walk'd with God!
199
The very footstool of Jove's throne,
And lift his intellectual eye
Full on the blaze of Deity:
Who sang with the celestial choir
Hosanna! to the Eternal Sire;
And trod the holy garden, where
No man but he and Adam were;
Who reach'd that high Parnassian clime
Where Homer sat as gray as Time,
Murmuring his rhapsodies sublime!
Who from the Mantuan's bleeding crown
Tore the presumptuous laurel down,
And fix'd it, proudly, on his own!
Who with that Bard diviner still
Than Earth has seen or ever will,
The pride, the glory of the hill,
Albion! thy other deathless son,—
Reigns; and with them the Grecian one,
Leagued in supreme tri-union!
Then why should I, whose dying song
Shall ne'er be wept thy reeds among,
Lydian Caÿster!—I, no bird
Of that majestic race which herd
Upon thy smoothly-rolling surge,
And sing their own departing dirge;
But one who must, O bitter doom!
Sink mutely to my sullen tomb
Amid this lone deserted stream,
Whose sands shall pillow my death-dream,
And for my hollow knell shall teem
Its dittying waters over me!
Why should I so adventurous be
With imitative voice to pour
One strain Caÿster heard before?
Shall ne'er be wept thy reeds among,
Lydian Caÿster!—I, no bird
Of that majestic race which herd
Upon thy smoothly-rolling surge,
And sing their own departing dirge;
200
Sink mutely to my sullen tomb
Amid this lone deserted stream,
Whose sands shall pillow my death-dream,
And for my hollow knell shall teem
Its dittying waters over me!
Why should I so adventurous be
With imitative voice to pour
One strain Caÿster heard before?
To stretch that bow should I pretend,
Which none but thou, dread Bard! could bend,
Well might the uncheck'd thunder speed,
Full volley, to avenge the deed,
And blast me, impious: but I keep
Dread finger still upon my lip,
And inly to Suggestion say—
“Lead not that high heroic way;
Where Milton trod few mortals may!”—
The war of Fiends and Virtuous Powers,
Sing thou in thy celestial bowers,
And charm the bright seraphic throng
Who crowd to hear the rapturous song,
And at their old recorded fame
Glow doubly bright. Not mine the same
High audience, nor a theme so high,
Nor oh! such passing minstrelsy!
Which none but thou, dread Bard! could bend,
Well might the uncheck'd thunder speed,
Full volley, to avenge the deed,
And blast me, impious: but I keep
Dread finger still upon my lip,
And inly to Suggestion say—
“Lead not that high heroic way;
Where Milton trod few mortals may!”—
The war of Fiends and Virtuous Powers,
Sing thou in thy celestial bowers,
And charm the bright seraphic throng
Who crowd to hear the rapturous song,
And at their old recorded fame
Glow doubly bright. Not mine the same
High audience, nor a theme so high,
Nor oh! such passing minstrelsy!
201
Wise in my weakness, I forego
The deeds of fell contest to show,
When Demon power met Godly host,
And battlefield was won and lost.
This has been sung in higher strain
Than ever shall be heard again!
I only tell ye to behold
A scene in sulphury volumes rolled,
And hear within the clang of arms,
Wild shouts, and dissonant alarms:
There came a mighty crash!—a pause
As dread succeeds—O righteous cause!
Be thine that note of victory
Which shakes the pillars of the sky
With loud symphonious melody!
The deeds of fell contest to show,
When Demon power met Godly host,
And battlefield was won and lost.
This has been sung in higher strain
Than ever shall be heard again!
I only tell ye to behold
A scene in sulphury volumes rolled,
And hear within the clang of arms,
Wild shouts, and dissonant alarms:
There came a mighty crash!—a pause
As dread succeeds—O righteous cause!
Be thine that note of victory
Which shakes the pillars of the sky
With loud symphonious melody!
Victory!—
Victory!—Lo! the fight is done!
Victory!—Lo! the field is won!
Victory! O victory!
Rejoice, ye glorious harps! rejoice!
Proclaim with one harmonious voice
Victory! Victory! Victory!
Victory!—Lo! the fight is done!
Victory!—Lo! the field is won!
Victory! O victory!
Rejoice, ye glorious harps! rejoice!
Proclaim with one harmonious voice
Victory! Victory! Victory!
202
Victory!—
Victory!—Lo! the fiends are fled!
Victory!—Lo! their king is dead!
Victory! O victory!
Pronounce it, with your silver tones
And shining mouths, sweet clarions!
Victory! Victory! Victory!
Victory!—Lo! the fiends are fled!
Victory!—Lo! their king is dead!
Victory! O victory!
Pronounce it, with your silver tones
And shining mouths, sweet clarions!
Victory! Victory! Victory!
Victory!—
Victory!—Lo! the welkin clears!
Victory!—Lo! the sun appears!
Victory! O victory!
The Powers of Darkness yield the Glen,
So breathe sweet harp and trump again—
Victory! Victory! Victory!
[Exeunt rejoicing.Victory!—Lo! the welkin clears!
Victory!—Lo! the sun appears!
Victory! O victory!
The Powers of Darkness yield the Glen,
So breathe sweet harp and trump again—
Victory! Victory! Victory!
| Sylvia | |